4-23-0912:24 –– Some people develop weird, psychic talents by doing the same thing day after day, and chances are they don’t bother to share this information. For example, the guy who snaked your john this morning probably knows how often you masturbate, and in turn can determine how happy your marriage is. From there, he can use subtle clues––from the way you say “hello” to your toilet contents––to extrapolate any number of things: balled receipt clogging up the works? Secret bank account. Wad of body hair? Trimming for an affair. Woman’s earring? Maybe the wife’s a drunk? People––all of us––are in a constant war between sneaking moments of happiness and looking for a leg up, because as sad as it may sound, we all assume we’re one hot minute away from it all falling apart.

I’m no exception. I get hunches all the time. There’s a constant exchange between the characters I make up and the ones I see, and sometimes the twain do meet. Another example: Kiki has her hand around Chet’s dick and she’s working his monster like there’s gold bullion in his nuts. She won’t let anybody touch her, so Chet’s got his hands behind his head. I only look up because I’ve burned through a-thousand words and I can’t get to 1,001 until that slurping sound stops. She’s got oils, Kiki. I prefer plain old spit, personally. But I told her “easy”, so she’s obliging.

Chet’s toes are pointed like he’s planning to hit the ceiling. I’ve seen this exact position about a-hundred times––back when Sahara serviced clients in front of me and I took that kind of shit from her––and this type of john can tell you a lot, too. No non-pro is comfortable getting off in front of another guy in normal circumstances, but we’re talking about Kiki, here. And like Sahara, she knows how to make everything disappear except you, her and your cock. I’ve never seen a man last longer than four minutes with either of them, and so far Chet’s on ten and climbing. That can mean a few things. The biggies are obvious: he’s gay, he’s high, or he’s racist.

I rule out gay. His pin is harder than my pen. High is a possibility depending on what might have already been in his system before the beers. By my count he’s on his third, and it was getting warmer than Kiki’s cunt. As for his being racist, I don’t see it. He would have balked at the idea of taking me deep into Harlem and leaving his cab out front. No, Chet’s deeper than just skin. But what seemed light about him at first, has now let down the shades.

For a minute or two, I think it might be the bourbon playing with my head. What’s not dark about getting a hand job in the Himes when you’re supposed to be picking up fares? Then I catch a tell. I look down to correct a misspelling and when I look back up I see him looking out the window through squinted eyes. I know there’s no one out there because we’re on the second floor. I look back to Kiki and she’s facing me with a look that says her arm’s about to fall off. Without speaking, I try and let her know that I need her to keep going. She switches hands––such talent––and goes to work on his balls as she rests her elbow.

I was wrong. It isn’t the window Chet is watching, but the script on the sill. He’s even got one hand splayed out in its direction. I’ve done that move before––in that exact position––willing my keys to fly into my palm so I could get the fuck away from my date. Yeah, it’s the script he wants, and I play back our time together in my head: his gutsy move to pick me up; his asking me what the story was about; his willingness to score me booze; his going straight to the bed when we entered the room.

What’s it about?

I get up and walk to the bed. Kiki sees me and before she can open her mouth I shake my head. Chet, whose been watching me since I rose from the chair, says, “Sorry, buddy…I’m not that guy.”

Funny. He’s never called me buddy, before. “Either am I,” I say, and with a sudden lunge I’ve got my pen to his throat.

“Whoah…what the flying fuck are you doing, man?”

“Move and I’m writing your obit on your tonsils.”

He zips it, and I think I see him look to the ceiling like he’s been made. That’s good, because I’m going on a half-assed hunch here.

I reach my hand under his pillow, and feel around. The only thing unusual is the scratchy, lace trim of the old comforter. I keep searching, and can tell Chet’s not helping me. It could be my imagination, but he seems to be slowly adding more pressure to the pillow with his head. Out of the corner of my eye I see Kiki still working his stick, which is fast becoming a noodle.

“You can stop now, Kiki,” I say.

“Ooookay,” she says, and holds both hands in the air like she’s being robbed at gunpoint.

“Mind if I put my pants on?” Chet asks.

“Shut up,” I tell him, and continue working my hand under his head, moving to the second pillow. Still nothing. I get an idea, and say, “Kiki, check his pants.”

“For what?”

“Just check them, please.”

She hops from the bed, her firm breasts barely moving, and swipes his jeans from the floor. Rifling through them, she says, “I got a wallet, keys…and a phone.”

“Open the phone,” I tell her. “Check the last call.”

“This is bullshit,” says Chet.

“I hope for your sake it is.”

“Wait…” Kiki says, “he’s got a text.”

“Read it,” I say, my pen still at his throat. I’m looking into his eyes, hoping to see something. For one, they look smarter than before.

Kiki presses a button and reads, “Keep him there.”

Silence.

Chet rolls and hits the floor. I hear him scrambling under the bed, so I push it away and see a gun lying near my foot. His hand gets there just as I’m coming down with my heel. That’s twice today my new ankle breaks something, definitely a record. He screams, but I won’t pick up. Not until I have the gun in my hand.

I only just realize I’ve pushed the bed into Kiki and see her getting to her feet. My stamping on Chet’s hand must have masked the sound of her hitting the deck. “Sorry,” I say, and toss her the gun. She tries to catch it, but her hands are covered in oil and it tumbles all the way to the door. My throw has released some pressure on Chet’s hand, and he yanks it out from under my foot. Then he backs out from under the bed and makes for the gun on his belly like a lizard, sliding his prick along the wood and leaving a slimy trail. Fitting. Before he gets two feet, I’ve got him in a rear naked choke. In seconds he’s asleep.

Kiki uses her shirt to lift the gun off the floor. “Sorry,” she says, holding it like its somehow worse than some stranger’s cock. “Who is he?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I’ll ask him when wakes up.”

Buzzzzz.

I hear René unlock the front door and the voices of men fill the hall. Next, he’s yelling for them to remove their shoes, but they’re having none of it.

“You owe me one,” Kiki says.

“No, you owe me one,” I say, feeling my back as I set a bullet into the chamber of the 9 millimeter.

“I know, but you never cash in,” she says, with a childish pout. “Still too fucked up over that downtown pussy, I see.”

“Just get behind the bed,” I tell her. “And leave Sahara out of it.”

She sighs and climbs over the bed. I pull the sleeping Chet to one side, pointing the gun at the door as I go. Why did she have to say what she said? She’s tough, Kiki, but she can be a real bitch.